


Nine (Ten)

by pornographicrainbowlegs



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Gen, General Trigger Warning, Mental Instability, Sick Stiles, Stilinski Family Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 10:30:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pornographicrainbowlegs/pseuds/pornographicrainbowlegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles shakes his head. “How do I know that this is real?” he asks, voice catching like he may have been crying too.</i>
</p><p> </p><p><i>“How do you usually tell?” his dad asks.</i><br/>...</p><p>Sheriff comes home to find Stiles got sick in the bed and is in the middle of a derealization cycle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nine (Ten)

It’s late when the sheriff pulls into his driveway. His son’s jeep is parked just where it should be. The light in the kitchen is even on. The sheriff smiles to himself for how thoughtful Stiles is sometimes. The kid is too adult for his own good, but he appreciates the hell out of him. He throws the cruiser in park and walks into the house.

He fully expected Stiles to be playing video games in the living room, or even doing homework at the kitchen table. It might be late, but Stiles hasn’t been sleeping well lately. And it’s Friday. And this is his son he’s talking about – that kid has been known to stay up to sunrise for a Star Wars marathon even on a school night. So with that in mind, the sheriff has to come to the conclusion that the house is quiet.

Too quiet.

Sure, there’s the furnace running and the sound of the refrigerator humming and the ticking clock above the sink. The sheriff can hear all of these sounds. But the fact that he can hear these sounds mean the house is too quiet. He shuts the garage door behind him and hangs up his keys on the hook.

“Stiles?” he calls. Even with the jeep in the driveway, it is possible his boy isn’t home. Stiles has gotten better about telling his father when he won’t be around. He walks further into the kitchen and checks the counter and table – no note in his son’s handwriting about homework at Scott’s or “pack business”.

“Stiles?” he calls again, the sounds of his footsteps against the wood floor in the kitchen sound hollow as the refrigerator grumbles to silence.

No note on the refrigerator either. He opens it and sighs at the several boxes of Chinese leftovers with green post its proclaiming ‘STILES ONLY, DAD KEEP OUT’.

“Stiles?” he calls again, letting the refrigerator door close on its own.

The ticking clock becomes unnervingly loud. Something isn’t right.

The sheriff quickens his search, walking through the dining room and to the living room and then up the stairs. His boots leave muffled thuds on the carpet as he climbs. He can still hear the ticking clock. He’s going to get rid of that thing. There are three clocks in the kitchen that don’t tick – the oven, the microwave, even the god damn toaster oven. There is no reason to hear the ticking clock as he stops in front of Stiles’ door. The light is off.

_When is a door not a door?_

The door is ajar and creeks when he pushes on it with two fingers. “Stiles?” he asks, quietly in case his son is getting some much needed sleep. He isn’t sleeping though.

An acrid, sour smell reaches his nose. “Dad?” Stiles warbles, the a sound catching in his scratchy throat.

His son is on the bed, sitting up and leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his bottom half still covered by the bed sheets. Stiles sniffles and coughs. He carefully brings an arm up and brushes his wrist under his nose, his fingers are stiff and shine under the moonlight coming from his window. Then he looks at his dad. “I threw up,” he announces.

“Okay,” the sheriff says calmly. “Can we get you cleaned up?”

Stiles shakes his head. “How do I know that this is real?” he asks, voice catching like he may have been crying too.

“How do you usually tell?” his dad asks.

Stiles coughs and heaves again. The sheriff crosses the room slowly, the smell getting stronger as he gets closer to the bed. The sick is in a pile between his legs. The sheriff sits down with Stiles on the bed, their shoulders could touch but he’s not sure if his son is receptive to that in his current state. So he waits, heart aching for his son, while Stiles keeps dry heaving and sniffling back tears.

The retching stops and Stiles wipes his wrist against his mouth. “I don’t even know if this is real or if I’m even myself,” he whispers, throat catching every few words.

“Even if this isn’t real, you shouldn’t be sitting in your own vomit,” the sheriff reminds. “Is it okay to clean you up?”

Stiles hesitates, eyes fascinated with his left knee. “I guess.”

The sheriff reaches for the edge of the bed spread and peels it back, careful to keep the sick contained within them. “Come on, let’s get you to the bathroom and I’ll toss these in the laundry.” He grips his son’s elbow and curls his other arm around to steady Stiles’ hip, letting Stiles use him to lean on as they get out of the bed. Stiles is unsteady on his feet and wobbles as they make their way down the hall to the bathroom.

The sheriff flicks the light switch and sees a darker gray stain on his son’s gray shirt. “Shirt too,” he says, trying not to make a big deal out of it. Stiles eyes are red and puffy, snot and tears and bile are covering his face. He looks miserable as he grips the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head and hands it to his dad.

“Wash up, bud, I’ll be right back.”

The sheriff gathers all the sheets from his son’s bed and drags them downstairs to the basement washer. It’s rote. Though Stiles hasn’t gotten sick like this since … well, since the anxiety attacks after his mother passed, he’s done this plenty of times to ignore what happened and just stick to measuring the detergent.

When he returns, Stiles is sitting on the floor in the corner of the bathroom, legs pulled up to his chest, head resting on his knees. “Stiles?” he asks, pausing at the door.

His son doesn’t answer.

“You okay?”

He mumbles.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

Stiles relaxes marginally, his head raising from his knees. Though it’s obvious he washed his face due to the lack of bile, tears have returned and are streaming down his cheeks. “I have nine fingers.”

Sheriff Stilinski’s stomach sinks. “No, Stiles. You have ten fingers. Just like everyone else.” He knows he must sound patronizing. “Count them again.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, and lets his head fall back to his knees. “Stiles, do you hear me?” he asks. “I said count them again,” his voice goes gruff and commanding. But Stiles doesn’t move. He just sits there and clenches his arms around his legs. “Count them again, Stiles,” he says again and Stiles whimpers.

“Am I scaring you?” the sheriff catches on. “Well, let me ask you this: What is scarier? Me? Or you being wrong about having nine fingers?”

The sheriff enters the bathroom and takes the three strides it takes to reach Stiles, who upon hearing the foot falls, tightens his ball further and leans into the corner he’s hiding in. The sheriff kneels down in front of his son and reaches for his hand. On contact, Stiles begins to struggle. “No! No, let go! Let go of me!” he shouts, trying to pull his hand back.

“Count with me, Stiles,” the sheriff demands, easily able to overpower his son. He pulls Stiles index finger out and raises his voice over Stiles pleading. “One,” he says and moves on to the middle and ring finger, “two, three,” he uncurls the pinky and straightens his thumb, adding, “four, five. Come on, half way there. Give me your other hand.”

Stiles has gone quiet and limp, but doesn’t cooperate. The sheriff has to grab the other hand and repeats the exercise. “Six, seven, eight,” he announces, slowly uncurling the index, middle, and ring fingers. “Nine,” he says at the pinky. “Ten,” Stiles thumb stuck between his own and index finger, wiggling it to bring the point home.

Stiles finally looks up from his knees, pulling his hands palms forward in front of his face. He quickly counts them again, tilting each digit at the joint to mark them off, his lips moving as he speaks the numbers quietly to himself. He gets to ten and starts over again.

“That’s right, baby, it’s all real. You’re you, I promise,” the sheriff says, gently adjusting Stiles body to be between his legs so he can pull his son to his chest. Stiles doesn’t stop counting. He feels helpless as tears track their own way down his cheeks.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten,” Stiles counts again. The sheriff hugs his son tighter. “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.”


End file.
